


The Making of a Templar

by Luaithe



Series: Tale of a Templar [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abominations (Dragon Age), Blood Mages, Demonic Possession, Gen, Kinloch Hold, Mages (Dragon Age), Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 00:24:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14659329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luaithe/pseuds/Luaithe
Summary: A young boy watches the templars in his village train and makes a decision. He too will dedicate himself to a life of service as a peacekeeper and champion of the just. But fate is rarely kind.





	The Making of a Templar

**Author's Note:**

> This pulls together some unposted intro/outro content in combination with parts from my main fiction. As the main fic uses the broken circle/Kinloch Hold segments out of order, this was uploaded to put it roughly in order of occurrence. May be updated as other parts come up in my main fic.

**Harvestmere 9:19 Dragon**

Cullen sat on a step across the green from Honnleath’s tiny chantry chapel with his head propped in his hands. His eyes flicked backwards and forwards between the single templar stationed outside the door to the Knight-Corporal leading Honnleath’s tiny complement of three templars in drills.

“Cullen. Cullen. Cullen!” An empty basket landed in his lap and Cullen jerked up guiltily. Mia sighed with all the superiority an older sibling could muster. “You’re supposed to be helping.”

Help he did. But he always found a spare few minutes to watch the templars.

“I’m going to be a templar.” He said one day as they enjoyed the last of the autumn sunshine by the lakeside. Seconds later, Cullen found himself soaked to the skin looking up as his brother cackled from the shore.

Whatever mockery Cullen might have suffered from his younger siblings that day, he didn’t give up that faint dream.

**Guardian 9:20 Dragon**

The Knight-Corporal supressed a chuckle. “Fine. Fine.” It was hardly the first time a village boy had wanted to swing a sword with the templars.

He spotted a stray branch on the ground and handed it over, “Keep out of the way of the rest of us. Swords are sharp.”

He was more than hopeless. Following even the simplest moves was more than he could manage. But he came back a few days later when he found spare time. Then a few days after that, until he was joining their drills at least twice a week.

The Knight-Corporal humoured him every time and, subtly, after a few months, he began to give more specific instruction. Even the oldest of the Knights-Templar – grizzled Ser Tomas with the kind smile and occasional bouts of forgetfulness – trounced him on the rare occasions he was allowed to face one of the templars in a duel. But he stood back up every time, hiding the aches and pains behind a serious smile.

**Haring 9:24 Dragon**

The Knight-Corporal smiled over to Cullen where he stood to one side following the precise sword forms. Cullen’s ‘sword’ might be a carved stick compared to the templars’ steel blades, but he followed the instructions as best as he could. After the drills, he called Cullen over.

“I’ve been telling Knight-Captain Haughton about you. He’ll be in Honnleath for an evaluation soon. Maybe you’d like to speak to him.”

There was really only one answer to that offer. One week later and the arling’s Knight-Captain arrived in Honnleath. He nodded approvingly as he watched Cullen follow the drills with the full squad that had accompanied him to the remote village. He listened quietly as Cullen passionately described his dream to help people in need. After a moment of thought the Knight-Captain stood decisively, “I will speak to your parents.”

As always, Mia managed to hunt him down where he sat on the peaceful jetty overlooking the lake near their home. “Cullen. You can’t miss this. That visiting Knight-Captain turned up at our front door!” She glared as the news didn’t ruffle his usual calm. “You knew he was coming.” She said accusingly. Cullen shrugged with a nervous smile. She grabbed his hand and pulled him up, “You should have told me! We don’t want all the practicing we’ve been doing with you to go to waste.”

The Knight-Captain’s escort chatted idly as they rubbed down their horses outside the Rutherford home. Cullen couldn’t help but stop and watch them enviously for a moment until Mia dragged him onwards. However calm a front he held up, his heart was in his mouth every step of the way.

The Knight-Captain looked out of place sitting in his gleaming steel in front of his parents. The templar’s sword alone likely could have bought the entire contents of their home with coin to spare. The expression on his parent’s faces was a confusing mix of pride and sadness. The chair creaked as the Knight-Captain twisted about to inspect Cullen. “A place as a recruit in the Templar Order is yours if you want it, young man.”

His family were reluctant at the thought of likely never seeing him again, but they knew it was a dream he had held for five years. The Templar Order was a respectable and honourable calling for anyone, let alone a farmer’s son from a tiny village in Southern Ferelden.

The day he was scheduled to leave with the Knight-Captain and his men, Cullen snuck a final peaceful moment by the lake. The noisy footsteps of his brother approached as the younger boy plopped himself down to dangle his feet alongside Cullen. He huffed a breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You’ll be a good templar, Cul.” After a moment he pulled his hands out and inspected the lone coin that lay in his palm. He shoved it into Cullen’s hand, “For luck. So that you come back and visit us.”

Leaving Honnleath was harder than he would have thought. The few years of his life had all been spent here. He had never expected his dreams to be fulfilled. He twisted about from his seat in front of one of the templars and watched the last glimpse of Honnleath fade beyond the fields. Each step strengthened his determination. Now that the dream was closer to coming true, he wouldn’t waste a single moment.

**Wintermarch 9:25 Dragon**

One of the other recruits his age sat next to him as he recovered during a break on his first day of drills. “Beval Stratholt.” He extended a hand and Cullen grinned as the two gripped forearms, mimicking the warrior’s handshake they’d seen the templars exchange. “Cullen Rutherford.”

Beval cocked his head, “I don’t recognise the name Rutherford. What bannorn is that?”

Cullen blushed. Most commoners didn’t have surnames, but it was the first time anyone had thought a farmer’s son like him was a noble. “I don’t know any Banns. I’m from Honnleath.”

Beval laughed, “I thought you didn’t sound like a noble.” He paused as though thinking it through, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath. We’ll look out for each other here.”

Recruits were kept busy enough that he could almost forget that he missed his family back in Honnleath. Weapons drills were hard. Lessons with the Chantry Mothers were harder. It turned out that sneaking a few hours to follow the Honnleath templar drills didn’t quite match up to full suite of training that Templars in the Order needed. A noble’s son or chantry orphan had a head start, even those younger than him. But that just meant he worked twice as hard as the rest. They might have started younger, but most of them didn’t have half his enthusiasm. Even the dullest lessons and exercises were worth the effort.

**Drakonis 9:29 Dragon**

The initiation was the conclusion of ten years of hopes and dreams. Cullen had no doubt that some of his fellow recruits tried to sneak a rest in the endless hours of the vigil. It was hard to maintain the expected serenity with his nervous anticipation humming through his mind. But he spent every moment whispering through the lines of the chant that had been hammered into him until they were almost as instinctive as sword drills.

Any nerves faded as he knelt calmly before the towering statue of Andraste and swore his vows. A templar should not seek wealth or acknowledgement. Their only duty was to serve. He resolved to uphold those vows to the very best of his ability,

His first taste of lyrium wasn’t like anything he could ever have imagined. The first drops set his blood on alight as its cold fire raced through his veins. Without the supporting hands of the templars to either side, he would have collapsed. A moment later, it was as if the searing pain had never existed. A faint soothing hum filled his head and washed away any worries to leave a cool certainty. He smiled in satisfaction.

“Ser Cullen Rutherford. Kinloch Hold, Lake Calenhad. Ferelden Circle of Magi.” Cullen tried to supress a smile at the pleasure the title gave before giving up to smile even wider at the posting. A placement in the Circle of Magi was more prestigious than any of the others available. He hadn’t let himself hope, but he couldn’t help feeling satisfied that years of dedication had paid off.

**Cloudreach 9:29 Dragon**

The cold wind from the lake cut right through Cullen’s thick robes as the boat crossed from the docks to Ferelden’s Circle Tower. Their route took them parallel to the broken sections of bridge that poked irregularly from the calm waters and cast long shadows over the rippling surface. The tower itself was an elegant edifice that soared hundreds of feet into the air above the vast lake and would have dwarfed every building in Denerim. The ferryman hid a smile as he watched his young passengers stare open-mouthed up at the tower that loomed above them.

The Knight-Commander himself welcomed them to the Circle, his second-in-command by his side. They were shown, mouths still agape, around the looping corridors and elegant halls of the Circle. Dormitories for the apprentices. Quarters for the senior mages. Refectories, libraries, infirmary, training halls and laboratories. Everything the inhabitants needed. Cullen had never seen quite so many mages outside of their few mage instructors.

Beval sighed as they settled into the barracks, “So this is where we’re stuck for the rest of our lives? Could be worse.”

Cullen ignored the feigned complaint. This was what they had both trained for and dreamed of for years, discussing their hopes and fears in the dead of night.

**Bloomingtide 9:29 Dragon**

Life in the Circle took some getting used to, but it was routine much like life as a recruit. They’d been warned against boredom, and there were certainly some duties that were tedious. But Cullen couldn’t help but watch in fascination as the mages studied or experimented. The older mages weren’t interested in speaking to him, but the younger ones who hadn’t yet become cynical were more than willing to chat in his off-duty hours.

His commanding officers praised him for the enthusiasm he showed. Cullen couldn’t understand why any of his fellow templars could be anything but passionate in their calling. Serving as a templar was something he had desperately wanted for more than half his life. After all the work to get here, it was everything he had hoped.

**Guardian 9:30 Dragon**

 “Ser Cullen. It’s your turn.” Tyarl’s prompting snapped Cullen’s head back to the chessboard.

“Right. Yes.” He scanned the board and moved a piece. “Tell me about the alienage?”

“The alienage? Not exactly a nice story to tell. I prefer the Circle. Why would you want to kno-?” Tyarl finally spotted the only other visible mage in the library and smiled knowingly, “Ah. I understand.”

Cullen’s eyes slid away from the board and back to her before he could stop them. He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No no. Nothing like that. I’m just...ah… interested to hear about it? There weren’t many elves in Honnleath and I never saw much outside the chantry when I was training in Denerim.”

The elf smiled indulgently, “I suppose I can find something worth telling.”

His Knight-Corporal scolded him for spending too much of his off-duty time talking with the mages. It didn’t stop him still saving the odd occasion to find an excuse to visit the library. To read some of the books there, of course. It was hardly his fault if she happened to be there at the same time. Not that she ever seemed to notice him. Most of the mages were almost blind to the presence of their templar guardians after a life in the Circle. He was just another armoured figure to her. But one day he would find the courage for more than a polite greeting.

**Bloomingtide 9:30 Dragon**

Cullen blanched, “Knight-Corporal. Are you s-sure?”

His Knight-Corporal frowned, “Very sure. The killing stroke in Apprentice Surana’s Harrowing will be yours.”

He spent every tense minute of the Harrowing in silent prayer as his wavering blade hovered over her prone form. He had never seen an abomination. He prayed he never would, but if he did, he prayed it wouldn’t be her body that was stolen by a demon. And he prayed he would never have to exercise the colder half of his duty as a Templar. Whatever the Mothers had said, he had been shown no reason to distrust mages or magic.

In the end, it was the quickest, cleanest Harrowing of those few he had attended. He breathed a sigh of relief as she was taken from the Harrowing chamber and he could sheathe his sword.

“You can come t-talk to me anytime.” He nearly kicked himself at the inane farewell and the stutter that just would not leave him throughout the entire conversation.

She laughed as she left with a wave, “I’d like that, Cullen.”

But she had actually come up to say hello as he stood on duty on the Senior Mage’s level. Maybe there was hope yet. If not for that stutter.

They were all worried about the possibility of a Blight. The King was gathering an army at Ostagar. But that didn’t stop the hushed excitement when a Warden came to visit the tower. Word was that he was investigating the possibility of recruiting someone from the Circle Tower. Perhaps a templar like the one who had been recruited a few months ago in Denerim. The Wardens were permitted to recruit one mage per Circle. Perhaps one of the mages would receive the honour.

Apprentice Jowan had been practicing blood magic in the Circle itself. Cullen had not believed anyone would ever truly use such forbidden magics. There had been suspicions amongst the Knights-Templar, of course. Rumours picked up from overheard discussions between the First Enchanter and commanding officers. All the rumour had proved true and she had been caught right in the middle. The Warden had invoked the Right of Conscription before Knight-Commander Greagoir could punish her for whatever unknowing part she had played. He was glad she had escaped Tranquility. But that vain hope would have to stay a dream.

At least there was no need to worry about distractions any more. Maker willing, the Darkspawn would be stopped at Ostagar and everything could return to normal.

**Justinian 9:30 Dragon**

The battle had been a resounding disaster. The King was dead. The Wardens were dead. She was probably dead along with them. A few of those sent from the Circle to assist in the battle had returned with horrific tales. If this wasn’t a Blight, it was certainly a lot like one. But without the Wardens, perhaps the whole of the Order and the Circle would now be called to fight.

Cullen found his mind drifting time and again to his family. He hadn’t seen them since he left for Templar training so many years ago. Letters from his sister – often left unanswered, to his sister’s irritation – had been his only connection. Now that had stopped. Only official messengers were permitted to enter or leave the Circle Tower. Maker knew if they were safe from the Blight as it crept through Southern Ferelden.

Life continued. Duties carried on as normal. He still stood watch over apprentices as they trained, still stood guard throughout the Circle, still spent free evenings in a library that wasn’t quite as bright as it had once been. But they all knew what crept up on them outside the walls.

The returning Senior Enchanters had called for a meeting to discuss how the Circle would react. Time would tell what First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir would decide.

**Solace 9:30 Dragon**

Muted humming that bore a vague resemblance to the chant echoed down the corridor. Cullen snuck a sideways glance to the templar posted at the opposite side of the archway. A roguish grin twisted the other man’s mouth and the volume increased a notch. Their watch continued for a full half an hour accompanied by nothing but the off-tune humming before Cullen groaned.

“Maker. Please stop.”

Beval’s grin widened, “I had a bet with Othered to see how long you would last.”

Cullen stifled a laugh, “I hope you lost. We’re on duty. You ought to take it more seriously.”

Beval made a show of looking around the curves of the empty corridors, “So you always say. And here we are. On thrilling guard duty for the next few hours until the evening bell. I don’t see anyone here to reprimand me apart from you, Knight-Templar Cullen Rutherford of illustrious Honnleath, so you can relax for once,” he gave the title a courtly flourish to match his early childhood as the youngest son of a Bann. Cullen’s own rural upbringing had been a never-ending source of amusement for Beval during their years as recruits. He smirked, “I have to be your source of distraction now that your pretty elf mage is gone. Did you ever actually manage an entire conversation with her before she was spirited away by the Wardens?”

Cullen coughed awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I have n-no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not,” Beval responded innocently. He turned back to his watch with exaggerated intensity.

Beval managed another half an hour in silence before he opened his mouth again, “I’m glad we weren’t assigned to duty on that big Circle meeting. Listening to mages talk all afternoon just might be more boring than-”

He stopped abruptly as the lyrium in his blood pulsed with such strength that it seemed an almost physical force. One year’s acclimatisation to lyrium meant that the feeling was familiar. Magic. A common enough sensation in a Circle. But this was stronger than anything either of them had ever felt, enough even to be felt on the templars’ floor high above where the mages worked and practiced. They exchanged tense glances.

“An apprentice’s spell gone wrong?” Cullen suggested weakly. His hand drifted towards the long hilt of the greatsword over his shoulder. The gleaming blade had never been drawn in anger, had never been needed outside of training and the few uneventful harrowings he had attended.

“Seems likely,” Beval responded with a nervous laugh. His hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his hip.

The lyrium continued pulsing. At the very edge of hearing, faint rumbles filtered through from the floors below. A trickle of dust and mortar drifted down from the ceiling.

Two full squads of templars pounded down the corridor from the barracks, “Fall in. Now!” Yelled the Knight-Lieutenant as they ran past Cullen and Beval to the mages’ floors below.

The meeting chamber was a charnel house. Streamers of blood haphazardly splashed the walls all the way to the high ceiling. Limp bodies were scattered from the rows of benches around the perimeter. None had made it as far as the room’s doors. The few intact corpses were so charred and bloodstained that it was impossible to tell what colour their robes had originally been. Not a one of the templar bodies in the room was in less than four pieces. Fresh blood painted their torn plate armour a deep arterial red. Some hadn’t even had the chance to draw their weapons.

Beval’s sword clattered from nerveless fingers and he retched in a corner. Cullen felt bile rise in his own throat. He took a few uncontrolled steps backwards until he collided with a wall in a metallic clank.

“Abominations,” whispered shocked voices.

The Knight-Lieutenant seemed paralysed. He shook himself, “Um. Right. We need to find the creature that did this and regroup with the Knight-Commander. Protect the mages as we go.”

The distant sound of terrified screams combined with blood-curdling shrieks as the templars formed back up into their squads. The more experienced templars exchanged looks that said they knew what awaited.

They quickly grew to regret the chantry’s encouragement of combat magic training in the Circles of Magi. Ribbons and clouds of blood sailed in a disconcertingly beautiful dance around mages accompanied by the acrid copper tang of blood magic. And those blood mages that failed to dominate the demons they called were even deadlier. There was only so much that lyrium could offer against the vastly overpowered magic and stomach churning wrongness of abominations. Templars shrieked as flames boiled them in their own armour, bands of force threw them to collide against walls with a sickening crunch and claws ripped through them like paper.

One abomination or cadre of skilled blood mages would have been a surmountable challenge. But the corridors of the Circle Tower held many more. And for every assailant they took down, more waited.

Cullen’s head pulsed in time with the lyrium song. There had seemed to be little point in conserving lyrium and so its melody was now uncomfortably muted. The Knight-Lieutenant limped beside him, sword arm sheared off right through the chainmail. The man had long since lost his shield, and now cradled his sword in his off hand. Cullen was miraculously unscathed, but they had been torn near to pieces by the last abomination. Now there were only six exhausted templars left.

A crowd of distraught apprentices huddled in their dormitory as the templars entered.  They looked for reassurance from their bloodstained guardians and found none. The templars didn’t dare question why the apprentices were alone, and they hadn’t the energy to provide comfort. The Knight-Lieutenant looked at them with despair, “We need to evacuate the apprentices. The Circle is lost.” Words a templar hoped never to have to speak.

The colossal doors to the Circle’s entrance were sealed. The templars pounded on the thick wood and went unanswered. Muted sobs from the youngest apprentices, some no more than six or seven years of age, tore at Cullen’s heart. The Knight-Lieutenant slid weakly to the floor by the door, “I’ll protect ... the … apprentices,” he panted feebly as his eyes drooped. His skin had long since passed from Fereldan pallor to ashen grey, “Knight-Corporal Annlise. Find the Knight-Commander… do what you can … to stop this madness. Keep the demons distracted … until the doors open for us.”

Corridors they had cleared were even more demon and abomination infested as they made their way back up through the Circle Tower. The horror had blanked out any possibility of conscious thought. Instinct and training was all that had been left of them. Now Cullen, Beval, Annlise, and Farris stood back-to-back above the eviscerated body of Hanson, blades held protectively towards a ring of hissing demons. Too tired to speak, too shattered to have any fear left in them. The ranks of demons parted and a figure in immaculate robes of a senior enchanter appeared. With their lyrium reserves depleted long ago, they had no way to deny the magic that tugged at their bones. The world went black.

~~~~

Cullen woke groggily, limbs stiff and cold and his mind hazy. His breathing felt laboured, as if his armour had shrunk to a size too small and now compressed his chest in its steel grip. He levered himself up from cold flagstones and blinked in confusion at the lurid purple barrier in front of him. He laid a tentative hand on the obstruction. His gauntlet transmitted a faint vibration through his arm and all the way to his boots. Still, dispelling a barrier was a simple task for any templar. He pulled on the lyrium that sang in his blood and … nothing. The glimmering barrier continued to cast its sickly light on the small antechamber. A barrier this strong could only have been cast by a group of mages… or a single blood mage. The tales of blood magic told to initiates in templar training had been enough to chill him to the bone.

“Andraste give me strength,” he whispered and tried again to dispel the barrier. The gleaming surface remained unmarred and undimmed.

The door to the antechamber creaked open and a man in mage robes came ambling through.

“Ah! One of our erstwhile young protectors has awoken!” he motioned towards a previously unnoticed second barrier on the opposite side of the chamber, “Your colleague has yet to rouse himself.”

Through the cylindrical enclosure, Cullen could see the prone form of Ser Beval. For a brief moment his head echoed with a recollection of screams, the crackle and burn of combat magic in the air, the clash of swords and shouted commands. A trace of cold fear wormed its way past the soothing song of lyrium as flickers of memory returned to him. Demons and blood magic. Knight-Commander Greagoir had sealed the tower, trapping him and a handful of his fellow templars in a circle gone mad. They had fought their way up, trying to protect the few remaining uncorrupted mages and to find the source of the insanity and then… he could remember nothing else.

“Enchanter Uldred, what is happening?”

As a young Knight-Templar, the chain of command between him and the Senior Enchanter was a rather complex affair. This was a man he should have been able to trust, second only to the First Enchanter in the mage hierarchy.

Uldred regarded Cullen haughtily. “Young templar, the mages of Kinloch Hold have decided that a change in leadership is needed. We neither require nor want the oversight of you and your templar brethren.”

“I don’t understand. Where is Knight-Commander Greagoir? What-?” Cullen stopped, at a complete loss for words. Whilst some of his fellow templars had demonstrated a lack of tolerance for magic, he had never seen anything that would have led him to believe mages were not to be trusted. To Knight-Commander Greagoir’s chagrin, Cullen would even call many of the younger mages his friends. Of course, they had chafed at life in the circle, but no more than some of the young templars who also found themselves bound to the isolation of the Circle Tower for the foreseeable future. Surely this kind of outright rebellion was unthinkable.

“Your Knight-Commander has fled. We have begun to cleanse Kinloch Hold of templar influence.” He paused as heavy treads sounded from the neighbouring room. Cullen gasped a whispered prayer as two twisted forms emerged from behind the door. Their flesh looked as though it had melted and tangled in the tattered remains of circle mage robes. Tufts of hair poked haphazardly above faces that no longer held anything human. Each figure carried the limp form of a templar over their shoulder.

“Abominations.” Cullen gasped. With the exception of recent events, he had never seen an abomination. The few harrowings he had attended had all passed smoothly. Even so, every initiate was taught what to expect. His hand flew to his back in an attempt to draw his weapon but hit nothing but air. The two-hander that should have been resting with a comfortable weight at his back was gone. He felt painfully powerless.

“Such a cruel name,” sighed Uldred, “These faithful mages have helped to free us all from the shackles that the chantry binds us with.”

The barrier containing Beval shimmered briefly then reformed as the unconscious bodies of Ser Annlise and Ser Farris were thrown unceremoniously to land in a heap on the floor with a muted thump and clatter of armour.

~~~~

Knight-Corporal Annlise held them together that first day as they faced the horrors of their captivity. She forced them to ignore the unbearable screams that drifted down from the Harrowing chamber. Even when they went on longer than seemed physically possible. She led them through drills, even unarmed as they were. Urged them to return to their mediation and mental focus exercises, and to conserve what little lyrium was left humming through their blood. She knew the withdrawal they would inevitably face, even if they did not. All so that they would be prepared for the eventual arrival of reinforcements.

No more than a few days, she said. Enough time for word to get out. For the rest to regroup. No one dared suggest that the encroaching Blight might make that a faint hope. Or worse, that they were the only ones left alive and in control of their own minds.

When the first drained bodies were dumped unceremoniously in the antechamber, she kept calm and faced down Uldred with confident authority. The discordant laugh as he mocked her cool defiance grated against Cullen’s fraying nerves.

Then, at Uldred’s command, the arm of the abomination by his side pierced through the barrier and grabbed her by the throat. It hauled her through the barrier as though she wasn't armoured in half her own weight of plate and chainmail. She choked and scrabbled uselessly at the thing’s warped flesh as it lifted her off the ground until her feet dangled in the air. Annlise was an elegant master with the blade. Against the abomination, it didn't matter at all.

Beval and Farris reached for her with desperate shouts. Uldred spared a disdainful glance for them and brought their movements to an abrupt stop as a copper tang filled the air. Their eyes bulged, and weak whimpers slipped out of them as they strained futilely against blood magic’s hold on their minds. The abomination’s laugh sounded clotted and distorted as the demon inhabiting what had once been a mage’s body forced out the laboured sound.

Uldred stepped up close and stared at Annlise for a long moment with unfeeling eyes. “I do so appreciate you volunteering to be the first templar to donate to the cause.” He drew a cruel blade and pulled the edge against a palm already scarred with half-healed scabs. Blood welled up and dripped to join the smeared trails that stained the flagstones. “The lyrium in you should be a great help to my endeavours.”

He squeezed his hand into a fist, blood oozing between his fingers. Annlise shrieked in piercing agony as bands of force formed and her armour crumpled about her. The antechamber echoed with brittle snaps as her bones were crushed in the steel grip of armour and magic. Farris and Beval strained even harder and Cullen leapt forwards with a cry of horror.

Another wave of his hand and the abomination drew a talon almost delicately down her arm. Her pauldron and vambrace clattered to the floor, split by the unnaturally sharp edge to leave her skin bared. Suddenly the armour that had been left to them seemed no better than if they had been stripped bare.

The abomination released its grip and Annlise drifted up until she was suspended head first over the floor, still whimpering in agony. Uldred drew the blade lightly over her dangling arm and smiled beatifically as the first beads of blood welled up. Instead of dripping to the floor, the rivulet of blood floated into a disconcertingly serene orbit around his raised hand.

“You Templars. So brave when you think you hold the power.” Uldred wiggled his fingers as the rivulet danced between them. “What good does all that training and lyrium and steel do against power like  _this_?”

He left them then as they desperately scrabbled to find a weakness in the enclosures that held them so that they might help Annlise. A thick streamer of glistening blood trailed like a chain connecting her to Uldred and whatever horrific experiments he conducted in the Harrowing chamber. Soon after, the shrieks of pain started up again. They weren’t quite sufficient to drown out Annlise’s ragged sobs as the life slowly drained from her shattered body.

Without her steadying presence, Farris descended into panic. He pounded at the barrier until his fists were bloodied and Beval was forced to restrain him. Cullen felt worse than helpless, confined across the opposite side of the room.

Annlise slowly drifted into unconsciousness as her heart weakened. The gentle flow of blood slowly reduced to a trickle. Uldred returned to draw another gentle gash over an exposed arm so bloodless and crushed that it could have belonged to one of the corpses. Then another. Until her arm was a ragged mess of cuts. All accompanied by a melody of suffering that drifted down to them through the open door. Cullen’s head throbbed with waves of agony as he tried and failed time and again to draw on the lyrium in his blood and dispel the barrier. At some point, after another drained and mutilated body joined the others in the room, he collapsed to his hands and knees on the floor. He dashed away hot tears that splashed onto the flagstones beneath him.

She died with a sigh as her heart gave out. The spell that kept her suspended gave out seconds later and she dropped to the floor with a clatter. It wasn’t the quick and violent death granted to the others as they had fought their way through the tower. And it was all the worse for it.

He whispered a prayer that she would find peace by the Maker’s side with ears covered to try and block out the sounds from above. Farris’ desperate pleas for mercy had long since faded to terrified whimpers that lasted for hours.

The next day - with the veil torn and gaping from Uldred’s experiments, and their bodies brought low by the first debilitating pangs of  _need -_ the first demons came to whisper in his friends’ ears. And again, Cullen was left to watch helplessly as their minds frayed and the piles of bodies kept growing.

~~~~

It was difficult to breathe in the dull purple gleam of the confined enclosure. In the unchanging glow, there was no distinction to be had between night and day. Time was marked mainly by the pitiful screams of the unwilling mages dragged into the harrowing chamber. Or worse, by the muted thump as another body drained of blood was dumped on the growing piles by the walls. Time slipped past both painfully slowly and impossibly quickly in the crushing confines of the magical barrier. Cullen hardly knew if he slept at all, or if he merely lapsed into unconsciousness. Food and water were provided intermittently at best. Cullen blinked slowly at the water bowl Uldred had slid through the barrier. Had that been just minutes ago, an hour, yesterday? The mage had kicked the bowl in none too gently and half the liquid had slopped onto the flagstones before coming to a rest against the kneeling templar’s foot. That the spilled water had now dried up spoke to it having been some time. He unclasped his hands and reached down for the water bowl to quench his painful thirst. The movement awoke a crippling pain in his head. He took one slow sip. The cool liquid left him more parched than before.

A fiery stream of pain tore from his head to pool in his gut and sent the bowl slipping from suddenly cold fingers to spin across the floor. It came to rest against the barrier, contents mixing with the slimy residue that seemed to be growing from the flagstones. Across the antechamber, Farris jerked awake and began to weep brokenly again over the twisted and bloodied form of Annlise. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. He began whispering the chant but stumbled to a halt, where had he left off?

The sound of tortured wailing from the harrowing chamber tapered out, much to Cullen’s gratitude. That was quickly drowned out by dread as the chamber’s door creaked open and Uldred strolled out. An inane thought drifted through the haze that filled Cullen’s mind. How do his robes stay clean from all the blood? Close on his heels followed the limping form of Ser Beval. Cullen had shouted, pleaded and finally begged Beval not to submit to the offers of the demon that had tempted him. To no avail. When his voice finally broke, there was nothing of his friend left behind blank eyes. Now the glazed look and dull smile were unchanged since he had succumbed to the Desire demon who knows how many days past. The towering form of an arcane horror followed behind them, and Cullen shuddered.

“I have tired of having this templar wait on me, and his blood grows thin,” sighed Uldred, “Our young templar could surely do with a little companionship like Farris over there.”

The arcane horror glided closer to the armoured form of Beval and a lambent spike of energy materialised in its hand.

Cullen stumbled to his feet, “No!”

He tried desperately to call the lyrium again, but its song had fallen to a whisper. He pounded feebly on the glowing barrier. Beval fell limply to the floor in a clatter of plate armour, pierced through the heart by the sorcerous blade. In that brief moment as a thin stream of blood marred his chest plate, his eyes cleared and met Cullen’s with a pleading and accusing glare.

Cullen fell to his knees weakly, “No…”

The arcane horror kicked the body unceremoniously through the barrier to lie in a twisted heap. A trickle of blood wound across the flagstones to soak into Cullen’s robes and stain the steel of his boots.

Uldred tapped a finger on his chin thoughtfully. “You appear to be a little under the weather.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a vial that gleamed with a familiar pure blue. Lyrium, at the concentrated strength suitable for a templar, rather than the dilute potion used by mages. Cullen’s thirst rose to a fever pitch and with horror he felt a desperate need rise in his mind.

“I hear lyrium withdrawal is terribly painful. Word is that it can kill a templar if they go too long without.”

Lyrium withdrawal. They had all been warned of the importance of keeping doses regular. With a shudder, he realised that these first signs meant he must have been here more than a week, perhaps longer. No one was going to save them. Surely even a Right of Annulment could not take so long to be approved by the Grand Cleric in the Denerim chantry. Cullen pulled in another laboured breath in the thin air of the shielded enclosure.

Uldred smiled deceptively gently and let the vial slip from his fingers. The brittle glass shattered on the flagstones and the pure blue liquid drained away into the gaps between the flagstones. Across the room, Farris began to pound on the barrier with wordless cries.

“Leave me. Please,” whispered Cullen.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. You’re the only one of your fellows left that can actually hold a conversation. It will be fun watching you break. Your friends were much too easy.” Uldred glanced over his shoulder. “Speaking of friends, I believe there’s someone who would like to say hello.”

Another mage strode down the stairs from the harrowing chamber with an ugly smile twisting his face. Cullen had attended Tyarl’s harrowing. He had played chess with the young mage. They had laughed together when Cullen expressed surprise at almost being beaten. They had spoken once of Tyarl’s difficult life in the Denerim alienage before being brought to the Circle Tower. He had seemed content. Hours or perhaps days previously, a pleading Tyarl had been dragged into the harrowing chamber. Now there was little of the calm demeanour the elf had once exhibited.

The mage crouched to bring his eyes level with Cullen’s and a sneer twisted his face. “Templar filth.” He spat, “I have been trapped in this tower for twelve years by you and your sanctimonious chantry.” Cullen met the molten eyes of a rage demon’s glare. “You deny us the power every mage dreams to hold. The power we deserve to hold.” The abomination stood with flames licking around its feet. “I hope you suffer before Uldred lets you rot with your friends.”

~~~~

When Uldred next passed by, Farris lurched up from his slumped position and pounded on the barrier. Even with the tenuous support of that solid surface, his body shivered like a leaf in the breeze. Bruising stood out in stark relief on his ashen face. Cullen flinched involuntarily at the memory of what had caused that bruising. The abomination that had found Farris a suitable 'toy' for its amusement. They had been shown time and again how the barriers that trapped them so effectively meant less than nothing to their captors.

"Senior Enchanter Uldred, please, let me out. I will serve. Anything. Just let me out. I need-" He stammered to a halt.

He needed lyrium. They both did. Beval - lost as he had been in a demon's grasp - had been given lyrium. Before they killed him. Cullen jerked unconsciously away from his awareness of that rotting body, only a few feet away. The need shivered through Cullen's bones and wracked him with delirium, fevers, and vomiting. But even with the crippling headache and aching muscles and nausea, he would never stoop to that level.

"What are you doing, Farris?" Cullen gasped in horror. His voice cracked in his dry throat.

Uldred drew to a halt and a small smile crossed his face. "Oh? A templar serving me of his own free will? What a novel idea. I would so love to think that you truly believe in what I'm doing here." Uldred extracted another vial of lyrium from a pocket and held it up to inspect its glowing contents. "But I imagine this is what you really want."

It was obvious that he would repeat the same action he had done before, but Farris' eyes grew wide with need. Cullen closed his eyes before Uldred could toss the vial away to smash against a wall. The tinkle of shattering glass seemed loud in the confines of the antechamber. Cullen could swear he caught the ozone smell of lyrium through the putrid stench that filled the air, even from where he knelt. Another streak of crippling pain forced a groan out of him and he dropped to a crouch.

"Please, Senior Enchanter. I will serve." Farris repeated with a whimper.

The air filled with the metallic taste of blood magic. With all the bloodied bodies scattered about the antechamber, Uldred didn't even need to draw on his own blood anymore. He grabbed hold of Farris' mind, blasting right through the man's weakened defences. He forced Farris to dance a few steps before he tripped and fell over Annlise's outstretched arm.

"I have no need of such weak-minded servants," Uldred replied disdainfully. Cullen froze as Uldred’s inhuman gaze turned towards him. “How about you, young templar? Would you serve?”

“I would not, abomination.” Cullen almost shouted the words in defiance.

A slow smile crossed Uldred’s face. He lifted a hand and – with sickening horror – Cullen felt himself respond, his shivering body drawing up to a standing position. Again, the copper taste of blood magic filled the air. He whimpered as his body was forced forwards one step. Then another. Until he was brought to a halt by the buzzing vibration of the barrier. And still, his body tried to step forwards under the inexorable control of blood magic. He tried desperately to force himself back, but his body refused to respond beyond a racing heart and short, panicked breaths. He could not even force out a desperate prayer.  _Maker, please. Help me._

Uldred stepped closer to the barrier until his own face was inches from Cullen’s. “I hold your mind in the palm of my hand, templar.” His eyes glittered as he whispered soft words without a hint of malice. “I could turn you into a drooling idiot. Force you to serve me hand and foot. You would do _whatever_ I want and there is nothing you could do to stop me.”

Cullen collapsed to the floor with a sob of relief as Uldred released his control. “But I find it more interesting to leave you as you are. None of you deserve such kind treatment.”

Cullen vomited. He felt irrevocably tainted. The appalling taint and wrongness of blood magic covered his mind. Uldred chuckled as he looked down on the sobbing templar, the sound perversely human.

Farris' desperate voice filled the antechamber. "Let me serve! Anything. Please!"

At some point - in between Cullen’s heaving sobs and the agonising retches that tore at already weak stomach muscles – Uldred disappeared again. Cullen eased himself back up and drew his knees up to his chest, head buried in his robes to block out the sights around him. _I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm._ Another sob broke free of his control. _I shall endure._

After a time, the room filled again with Farris' muted weeping. Cullen’s head jerked up in response. From the corner of his eye, like heat haze over the lake, he saw the lipless grimace of Despair, whispering in Farris' ear with a grotesquely large hand on his shoulder.

"Don't listen to it, Farris," he whispered to unheeding ears. As futile as his attempts to save Beval. "We can endure. Don't-"

A streak of pain paralyzed him entirely and darkened his vision. _We can endure_ , he prayed as he slid into unconsciousness.

~~~~

Conciousness gradually returned to Cullen in jerky increments. First the sound of screams, then the rough feel of the flagstones on his cheek and the press of his armour on his body. Then the crippling headache and punishing thirst that could be answered by only one thing. Then in a sudden lurch every memory returned to him. Blood. Demons. Death. Pain. With a jolt, he levered himself up from unconsciousness and glanced over towards the opposite corner of the room.

“No!” He whispered in shock.

The barrier containing Farris and Annlise had disappeared. Farris’ body lay slumped lifelessly in the corner, slowly sinking into the creeping piles of rot and corpses that crowded the room. With horror, Cullen realised that while he lay unconscious, Farris had succumbed to the demon that haunted him. He felt bottomless shame at his relief that he would no longer have to listen to the broken weeping that resulted from the cold whispers of Despair. But now, there was no one. No one but Uldred and his friends and their cruel attentions. And the abominations and the demons. He held back a sob.

With a shudder, he levered himself completely up and turned to kneel again facing the antechamber door. Better that than to see the broken bodies of his friends. His armour pulled heavily on his weakened and shivering body, but right now, it seemed to be the only thing keeping him whole. He could only pray for the strength to endure whatever horrors Uldred had promised. Surely the Knight-Commander would come soon.

Cullen’s body was wracked by uncontrollable shivers but he forced the words out with a tongue that was stiff with thirst. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter.” He could not give in to despair, “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just,” he must hold faith in the duty of the order, “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood-“ he stammered to a halt as the bloodied corpses at the edges of the room drew his gaze. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and completed the final verse in a wavering voice, “In their blood… the Maker’s will is written.”

Movement at the edge of his vision drew his eyes to the corner of the room. Annlise stood, armour suddenly gleaming as brightly as if it was newly forged. She walked over to stand in front of the barrier and crouched to bring her eyes level with Cullen. She smiled softly, “You have a lovely voice. Perhaps you could sing more of the chant for me?”

Cullen jerked back in disgust. Annlise was dead. He had watched every agonising moment of that. “Demon. Stay away!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and silently repeated the Canticle of Benedictions to himself. Finally, he dared open his eyes again. The room was as empty as it had been before. He had few moment’s blessed peace before a gentle whisper that seemed to emanate from everywhere at once sent shivers down his spine.

“Perhaps something else is more to your liking?”

Cullen retched weakly at the feeling of something sifting through his mind. The air in front of him shimmered and a familiar delicate elven figure in circle mage robes appeared in front of the barrier. A cool hand on his cheek turned his blood to ice.

"No," he whispered as her calm eyes met his, "You died at Ostagar."

A familiar smile quirked at her lips. "Then how could I be here now?"

~~~~

Warm morning light filled the room with an almost ethereal glow. A warm breeze caressed his cheek. It smelled like the summer breeze off the lake where he had grown up, not of….  His mind shied away from the thought. That must have been a dream. A terrible nightmare. His parents had talked him out of joining the Templar Order. He had married. He had a life here in Honnleath.

A form shifted under the covers of the bed in the centre of the room. Familiar tilted eleven eyes met his, blinking sleep away. A smile bent her lips and she reached out a hand, “Won’t you join me, Cullen?”

One step forwards. Another, until his shins hit the side of the wooden bed with a metallic click. Metal? He looked down to see his simple tunic waver as though through a heat haze. His hand lifted to touch the cold steel of his breastplate. _I_ am _a templar. This is wrong._ He squeezed his eyes shut, “Leave me, demon!”

Cullen opened his eyes to the lurid glow of the magical barrier. He levered himself up from where he had fallen unconscious. His muscles wavered, and his head pounded with pain. But sleep was too dangerous. He dropped weakly into the familiar supplicant’s posture.

An hour of relative peace, with the distant sound of screams.

_Maker, my enemies are abundant._

_Many are those who rise up against me._

_But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_

_Should they set themselves against me._

“Perhaps something different?” The voice of his tormentor weaved sickeningly in between the sounds that drifted down from the harrowing chamber.

She stood there, wearing nothing at all. A small smile danced over her lips, “This could all be yours. Don’t you want me?” Abruptly, her feet rested on rot-stained floor. Hands that were more like talons were covered in blood all the way up to her warped wrists.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “Leave me.”

When he opened them again, it was almost a relief to see the familiar sights of bloodied corpses and shattered armour. A blessed few minutes of peace.

_In the long hours of the night_

_When hope has abandoned me,_

“You can’t shut your eyes forever. You’ll sing for me eventually, sweet templar.” The voice coiled through the whispered echoes of his prayers.

_I will see the stars and know_

A beautiful woman in the pristine robes of a Chantry Sister crouched in front of him. For a moment, her eyes glowed lyrium blue. She held out a vial of crystalline liquid, “Here, won’t you take it? I know you’re hurting.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

_Your Light_

Another vision. Another temptation.

_Your_

Another.

_You-_

Another.

_Maker, please let me die._

~~~~

The library where he stood his watch duty was peaceful. Watch duty there always was. Cullen rolled his shoulders slightly to settle the weight of his greatsword. For a moment, he had been so sure he wasn't carrying it. He continued scanning the room dutifully. He knew exactly what, or rather who, he wanted to see, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

Suddenly, there she was, robes whispering over the smooth flagstones. His heart skipped a beat as she walked over with a brilliant smile on her face. The smile she reserved for him.

“H-hello, Apprentice Surana.”

She smiled wryly, “I think we’re a bit past that formality.”

A soft palm caressed his cheek. For a fraction of a second, so brief that he was sure it was his imagination, the knife-points of talons pressed into his skin. The breath that whispered into his ear carried the ozone smell of lyrium. And the warm lips that kissed his held that metallic, searing taste that he craved down to his bones. He almost leaned forwards and brought his arms around to hold her close to him. Almost forgot himself in a kiss that held everything he desired and more.

He scrambled back, away from the lie, gauntlets slipping as they caught on Beval’s decayed body. “No! I would never have done that,” he protested desperately, “Stay away!”

She sat outside the barrier as though she hadn’t been close enough to touch him mere seconds ago. “Stay away?” A familiar shy smile flickered across her face, “Didn’t you say I could come talk to you any time?”

Maker knew he had tried to escape his prison often enough that it wasn’t even worth trying any more, and yet she reached toward him as if it didn’t exist. “There’s nothing to fear from me, Cullen. I can’t bear to see you keep yourself trapped in there. Won’t you take my hand and let me help you out of this nightmare? You know me.”

He wanted desperately wanted to believe that taking her hand would break this nightmare. He had truly wanted the chance to get to know her once too. Until a demon had stolen her face and twisted that shameful wish into torment. “I would kill you if I could, Demon…” he whispered.

“You desire her death?” mocked an echoing voice in his head.

Her slight elven form bulged and twisted with a sickening sound of stretching and snapping bones. Eyes that had looked at him with nothing but compassion filled with the lambent purple glow of a demon. Suddenly, he stood again in the Harrowing chamber, blade in hand, as an abomination wearing her form sauntered towards him with a twisted smile.

“She failed her Harrowing, Ser Cullen! You must kill her. Give her that mercy.”

He lurched as Greagoir’s commanding tone almost compelled him to raise the sword and obey. The abomination took another slow step closer and laid razor talons against his cheek in a brutal parody of her earlier caress.

Clearly some part of him hadn’t broken quite enough yet. A single tear tracked down his cheek. Against every instinct engrained by years of training, he squeezed his eyes shut. "This is not real. Leave me be." _Or kill me now_. A desire even the demon hadn’t offered him yet.

His cracked and tired voice echoed back at him from the stone walls of the suddenly empty antechamber. For a moment, he was grateful to hear nothing but the melody of shrieks from the demons and abominations and the screams from the harrowing chamber. To see nothing but cold stone and corpses so decayed and shattered that even the weakest spirits didn’t bother to possess them anymore. Didn’t bother to send the bodies of his friends crawling to press their accusing glares up against his prison. This was reality. No one was coming to free the tower. He pulled in a shuddering breath of the putrid air.

“I could never leave you for long, sweet templar.” He flinched as her voice, her breath, tickled his ear.

“N-no. P-please…” he couldn't even feel shame as he stammered out the words and more tears raced after the first. Not even a minute to rest. From somewhere, he heard Uldred’s coldly inhuman laugh. He hardly knew anymore if it was real or just another hallucination. Maybe the abomination had come to watch him break, piece by agonising piece.

She flickered into his view again. He lurched back, then recoiled forwards as the humming vibration from the barrier threatened to shake his weakened body apart. Nowhere to retreat. No way to attack. The vision would simply reform right around his hand if he lashed out. No choice but to crouch on his hands and knees with her face inches from his own.

She grabbed his trembling hand and smiled at him. For a moment, her eyes flashed a solid, crystalline blue.

“Please, what?” She caught his eyes with her own and then traced his armoured form with a burning desire he would never have imagined she would show. Ozone breath tickled his cheek. It tugged at the empty spaces inside him and reminded him of a song he wished he could hear again. A taste that lingered on her lips. “I’ve seen you looking. Why reject what I offer freely?”

He snatched his hand back from her iron grip and turned his head away from her naked body. “This is not what I want,” he protested weakly. He cursed himself internally for the part of him that did want what was offered. Demons will tempt you with your deepest wishes. Always be vigilant. You must never submit. Never take what is offered. Purge yourself of weakness. Or you will be lost to the Maker for all eternity. Whatever he had learned as a recruit, it was getting harder to believe that submitting could be worse than what he endured now. It was getting harder even to differentiate reality and fiction. The deaths of his friends Maker knew how long ago seemed a mercy.

He closed his eyes and pushed himself into the kneeling posture of prayer that seemed to have etched itself into his tired muscles. “Maker, forgive me for my failings. For having desired what I should not. Blessed are the corrupt and wicked who do not falter-”

“You will not shut me out forever. I would wait eternity for you. Your courage will make it all the sweeter when you finally take what I offer.” Her gentle voice morphed into the painfully beautiful voice of his tormentor, “And they all do.” A talon caressed his cheek, leaving cold fire in its wake, “I will wait as long as you need me to, my beautiful, brave champion of the just. Sing your chant. I am the only reality with which you need concern yourself. And I will always always be here for you, Cullen.”

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the j-just,” he stammered out. The words felt tainted after having come from a demon’s lips. But he held onto them tightly even so.

“Never fear,” the demon whispered lovingly. Its melodic laugh twined through the screams from the Harrowing chamber. “I could never abandon you as your fellows so cruelly did.”

“The first of the Maker's children watched across the Veil. And grew jealous of the life. They could not feel, could not touch. In blackest envy were the demons born.” He forced the murmured verses to override the demon’s voice. He had the shivering certainty that the moment he forgot the words of the chant was the moment he would lose himself forever.

“I am nothing so petty as Envy.” The mocking words were so faint that Cullen was half convinced they were a hallucination to join the rest.

His head drooped to rest on his folded hands. His eyes flickered closed briefly before he wrenched them open in panic. "No," he whispered. Sleep was too dangerous.

The snow was a pristine, glittering white. In every direction, the peaks of the Frostbacks marched out as far as he could see, fading into the distant haze and brilliant blue of the sky. A gentle wind ruffled unruly hair and pulled slightly at his coat. The smooth mountain plateau was blissfully quiet and empty, with nothing but the soft rush of the wind and endless space. The air tasted beautifully pure and untainted as he heaved in a deep, unrestricted breath with a smile.

A cool hand slipped into his and he turned to the woman beside him. She smiled up at him. Her vibrant elven eyes might not have been that crystalline shade that seemed to dance at the edge of his memories, but they were just as captivating. She indicated a cabin, their cabin, behind her with a tilt of her head.

"There’s food waiting for us. I imagine you’re hungry after the journey up here. Shall we?" A mischievous grin that promised plenty twisted her lips, “Unless you’d rather skip the meal?”

The snow crunched under his boots as he took a step closer and claimed her other hand. The peace was perfect. Infinitely better than…

Her head suddenly whipped around. An angry glare twisted her delicate features as they morphed into the cold beauty of his tormentor. The vision abruptly flickered out of existence.

Cullen lurched awake and the punishing truth of reality came crashing back around him. Sleep, or at least unconsciousness, had claimed him after all. He could barely muster up the energy to be grateful that the dream had shattered. Better to simply get what pleasure he could out of the moment of peace while it lasted.

“Andraste give me the strength to endure,” he whispered over his folded hands. An eternity of torment. Did he even mean the prayer anymore?

He broke off from the chant and cocked his head with the ragged remains of curiosity. The constant background noise from outside the antechamber had shifted slightly. It almost sounded like a battle. Maybe the demons and abominations were bored.

His heart fractured a little more as the antechamber door creaked open. It seemed that the brief respite had been just another of the demon’s cruel tricks. Sudden anger filled him. From some untapped reserve he found the strength to jump up and shout at the familiar figure that had stepped into the antechamber, staff in hand.

"This trick again?” He accused the apparition, “I know what you are. I will stay strong.”

An unexpected look of shock crossed horrifically familiar features that had tortured him for days or weeks or months and … a Circle Enchanter? And two unfamiliar armed and armoured companions? With a sinking stomach he realised that the demon must have found reached even further into his mind. Now it would falsify a rescue like the reverse of some tale of a knight in shining armour. A pitiful new desire that was growing to replace older, more shameful ones. He didn’t even know which was worse anymore; to deny desire yet again and be left with nothing but abominations and rotting corpses and the promise of more torment, or to finally submit to the demon.

And yet it wasn't an illusion. There wasn’t any room left for hope or gratitude, just churning anger. The demon had shown him just how treacherous those feelings had been.

She showed the same innocence that had been seared from him in painful inches. “I hope your compassion hasn't doomed us all,” Was all he could say as the small party made their way into the Harrowing chamber. He turned away from her face before it threatened to flicker into the features of his tormentor.

Cullen limped through the halls of the Circle. The carnage in every room and corridor was even more horrific for how familiar they had once been to him. His home. His knees buckled, and he nearly fell to the floor. The Enchanter reached out a helping hand. Cullen flinched away with a clatter as he hit the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. “Stay back!” He had no weapon, and there wasn’t a drop of lyrium left in his blood to properly defend himself. He tried and failed to pull weakly at a song that had faded to an imperceptible whisper. Maker, please, he begged. He held out a hand to ward the mage away as his breathing hitched in short gasps.

“You are safe now.”

Cullen would have laughed at Greagoir’s kindly words if the ability hadn’t been taken from him. Safe?! No one is ‘safe’ from magic. He denied the sympathy in the voice of a man who had left him to be tortured at the hands of a demon for Maker knew how long. The Knight-Commander hadn’t been dead after all. Just waiting as they had suffered and died for their duty until only Cullen was left alive. Perhaps this was all one convoluted vision, and he would wake once again to the coldly beautiful face of Desire.

But after everything he had endured – an endless time of torment at the hands of mages, living proof of how treacherous magic was - Greagoir planned to revoke the Right of Annulment. If nothing else, this was proof that Desire was gone. Cullen would never wish for this ending. Surely Greagoir could recognise the danger. Even one blood mage or abomination would collapse the whole tower all over again. The Circle had to be annulled. It was the only way they could be safe.

**August 9:30 Dragon**

He woke from his sleep with a shriek that scraped his throat raw. A crystal-clear memory of lambent eyes and cruel temptations. Magic tinted a lurid purple. Death and abominations and blood everywhere he looked. His panicked gaze caught the edge of mage robes and he reacted without even thinking. An overpowered smite fuelled by naked terror sent the mage flying to land with a bark of pain all the way across the infirmary.

Pounding boots entered the room and the cold touch of metal gauntlets pressed into his shoulders. He curled himself away from the reassuring voice. Another lie from the demon. He squeezed his eyes shut as words tumbled from his lips. “No. Maker, please, no. Leave me be or let me die, demon.” They couldn’t stop his terrified whispers. Finally, he was sedated.

After a week of recovery, Cullen was able to accept this new version of reality. One that involved a set of dangers to which he was newly awoken. He cursed himself for his naivete before the breaking of the Circle.

They promoted him for ‘heroic service above and beyond the call of duty’. The title hero was sickening. His fellow templars treated him more like something broken, whatever praises they might claim to have. As if they could see the stain the demons had left on his soul. Just like how he could see that stain when he looked himself in the eye in the mirror. He knew the truth behind it anyway. A pitiful apology for abandoning him to the demons and abominations.

Greagoir reluctantly gave in to his pleas to return to duty. Every day the mages watched him with demons lurking behind their eyes. A layer thinner than the most delicate pane of glass. Every subdued conversation was another plot. And every night, if he was able to sleep, the dreams sent him screaming from his bunk and woke every other templar in the barracks.

Instead, he woke earlier and retired later. Fervent prayers in the chantry pleading for the strength to drive weakness from his mind and prevent others from suffering as he had. Hours of training in between his duties to restore his strength and hone his skills. The only reason he remembered to eat was because it was a scheduled part of a templar’s day.

Every suggestion for an increase in security was turned down. Curfew? Permanent watch during free time? Restrictions on available literature? Greagoir claimed even the most minor suggestion was too ‘impractical’ or ‘strict’. As if there was such a thing where magic was concerned. Only engrained deference to a superior restrained the cold anger.

They gave him private quarters. It didn’t help. What should have been a luxury intended only for senior officers felt just like the cage that had held him. Even the thought of braving the demons and dangers that lurked in dreams sent ice running through his veins. His raw screams on the nights he dared sleep left his neighbours irritable. Their muted sympathy and false smiles meant little. None of them had experienced what he had.

The twirling staff of an experimenting enchanter blazed with a lurid glow for just a second as the spell overloaded. Cullen reacted blindly. The unconscious enchanter was sent to the infirmary after a whiplash of mana as his connection to the fade was harshly cut. The broken ribs only made it worse.

It was the third incident. Greagoir didn’t even bother to hide his anger this time. Less than a week later, Cullen was transferred from Kinloch Hold.

**Kingsway 9:30 Dragon**

Greenfell. A peaceful monastery in an isolated village far from the world. Greagoir had claimed there was a new path to be found here. But he knew the truth. _So, this is my punishment for failing._

They took his sword. Took his armour. Left him purposeless and defenceless against whatever threats might emerge. The nightmares were not kind.

“Here, child,” the Mother placed an extra vial in his hand as he collected his lyrium one morning and folded his fingers around it. “It will help you find peace.”

And it did, in a way. The nightmares were marginally less intense, and he didn’t _feel_ anything. Not anger, not terror, not resentment. Just the cold logic of his duty. It was all seared away by that crystalline blue draught each morning.

The lay sisters and brothers had been reluctant to speak to him anyway. Too scared of the wide and haunted eyes that constantly roved for danger. Too scared of a templar whose hand always clutched desperately for the hilt of the sword they had taken from him. But they seemed even more afraid of his empty smile and cold civility now.

Ivain never seemed to be much bothered by the screams that woke Cullen when he was too tired to avoid sleep any longer. He smiled absently as he sat down on his bunk. His cloudy eyes showed a rare moment of clarity from the nest of wrinkles that surrounded them. “The blue will help. For a time.” Shaking hands barely managed to prepare his daily draught without spilling the entire vial. Ivain drained it with a sigh and the shaking gradually stilled. “As long as you’re happy to pay the price.” The clarity faded out again to leave a vague smile.

The next morning, Cullen set his additional lyrium vial to one side on the shelf by his bunk. Suddenly all the hints dropped by the older templars made sense. He would not compromise his ability to serve. The nightmares and the fear were a small sacrifice to make. With steady hands he measured out an exacting half-dose of lyrium.

Cullen could hear the heated conversation from behind the Mother’s closed door. He stayed where he was, kneeling in front of the chapel’s simple statue of Andraste. It might not hold the ornate beauty of the chapels in Kinloch Hold or the Denerim chantry, but faith didn’t need ceremony.

“He cannot stay here, Mother,” that voice belonged to the Knight-Lieutenant, “Ser Cullen is teetering on a knife-edge. I fear what he may do if he falls.”

“The affirmed have made complaints,” continued one of the Sisters. “They say he is too cold. And he scared Hendry near to death yesterday. All Hendry did was say good day, and Ser Cullen almost took his head off.”

He couldn’t hear the Mother’s response. Her chamber door opened. Cullen didn’t need to look to see the fearful glances and wide berth the Sisters gave him. The back of his neck itched, and he shifted to keep them in view until they left the chapel. The Knight-Lieutenant watched Cullen for a few moments from where he thought Cullen couldn’t see him. Then he too left.

The Knight-Lieutenant extended an arm to clasp Cullen’s. Cullen extended his own arm mechanically. “We’re sorry to see you go, Knight-Corporal.” The words rang hollowly. Cullen didn’t bother to feign a polite response. What did a templar in a peaceful place like this really know of the Order’s duty?

He barely even registered the familiar scenery on the days-long trip back to the Circle Tower. His welcome back to Kinloch Hold was perfunctory. Knight-Commander Greagoir sent his new Knight-Captain to greet Cullen at the docks rather than going himself. Even the Knight-Captain seemed reluctant to look him in the eye. The man was a transfer from Denerim. He hadn’t faced the horrors of Kinloch Hold. “Welcome back, Ser Cullen. I’m afraid you won’t be here long. Knight-Commander Meredith has agreed to accept your transfer to the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. Your old Knight-Lieutenant volunteered to provide you with an escort as far as Highever.”

“Thank you, Knight-Captain,” he responded flatly. So, no one in the Circle Tower wanted him around any more than those in Greenfell did. At least he wouldn’t have to face the terrifying halls of the Circle Tower for long.

Kirkwall. Perhaps there he would be able to redeem himself. There was nothing for him in Ferelden any more.

**Author's Note:**

> This is standalone, but the final section transitions into the start of my main fic.


End file.
